


Forget to be afraid

by Niitza



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Kurt wakes up to a life he doesn't remember - and, as he finds out, doesn't really like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget to be afraid

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** Mention of events up to 5x03, even though the fic sometimes plays loosely and freely with canon, as it is an AU. Also: probably grossly inaccurate depiction of amnesia, recovery and medical facts.
> 
> **A/N:** I started writing this fic when trying to get back into writing and decided to limit myself to snippets of 150 words each (as counted by my word processor) to see if it would help. It did. I was able to write / finish other things, but decided to see this fic to the end while maintaining the format I'd first chosen. I hope it worked well.

 

Kurt woke up to two nurses fussing over him.  
  
He watched their movements for a couple of seconds, then fuzzily came to the conclusions that he was in the hospital. He'd been injured: he had a cast on his left wrist, a patch of gauze taped to his neck, a thick bandage around his head-  
  
A doctor stepped into the room.  
  
"Mr. Hummel," he said with a bland smile. "I'm glad to finally see you awake. Do you remember what happened?"  
  
"No," Kurt honestly replied.  
  
"No worries," the doctor was swift to reassure him. "It often happens with head injuries like yours. We'll just go through some routine questions to make sure everything's all right. Could you state your full name?"  
  
"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel."  
  
"Date and place of birth?"  
  
"May 27th, 1994 in Lima, Ohio."  
  
"What is the current year?"  
  
"..."  
  
As it turned out, things weren't _completely_ all right.

  
*

  
"It appears that you suffer from retrograde amnesia, affecting most of your memories from the past ten years."  
  
"Oh my God."  
  
"Don't worry, most patients recover after a while and with proper care."  
  
"I'm pretty sure I have _seen_ that movie."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Okay then," Kurt sighed. "Let him in."  
  
"... Let who in?"  
  
"The man currently wringing his hands in the corridor, waiting for you to tell him he may see me, not knowing if he wants to or not because he knows that I probably won't remember him or the life we've started to build or-"  
  
Kurt noticed the look on the doctor's face and cut his tirade short.  
  
"My husband."  
  
The doctor frowned. "Mr. Hummel, you don't have a husband."  
  
"I don't?"  
  
"No one is listed as your spouse in our files, so unless your situation recently changed-"  
  
"But. You told me I'm thirty four."  
  
"... Yes?"

  
*

  
He received flowers and polite, standardized wishes of recovery, but didn't see the face of any of those people whose names he didn't know. His only company was the regular beeping of the machines in the room, or the TV he couldn't bear to leave on too long.  
  
It felt achingly lonely.  
  
"Do you know when my father will be here?" he asked one of the nurses when she came to check on him.  
  
"Oh, um." She fumbled awkwardly with his chart and her reaction pierced Kurt with icy terror, because what if-  
  
"We informed him that you'd woken up and he said he would be here in a couple of days."  
  
"Oh," Kurt said, feeling numb with sudden relief and the smallest tinge of disappointment. "Okay. Thank you."  
  
A couple of days. That's what being over thirty was like, he supposed. Your parents didn't rush to your bedside anymore.

  
*

  
They brought him what old copies of fashion magazines they had when he asked for them in order to distract himself from the emptiness in the room and, apparently, in his life. No husband. No boyfriend. No-  
  
He remained stuck on a cover from nearly five months ago because, somehow, his name was on it.  
  
Two of his colleagues had briefly dropped by, busy and hurried, barely there for a second then gone. His unexpected absence had thrown their boss in despair and the whole fashion house in turmoil, they'd said.  
  
He did remember his years at Parsons, after Isabelle had gently pushed him in that direction, after he'd given up on NYADA entirely. He remembered bits and pieces of what had happened afterwards.  
  
He didn't dare open the magazine.  
  
But at least there was one thing in his life that seemed to have turned out the way he'd dreamed.

  
*

  
A knock against the door, a round face peeking into his room with a smile.  
  
A known face.  
  
"Tina!"  
  
She was wearing a doctor's coat whose severe, adult lines she pushed aside with a wave of her hand and the bounce in her steps. "Hi, Kurt."  
  
A man appeared after her in the doorway and stopped there - also a doctor, dark-haired, dark-eyed, around their age probably. Not too tall, not too lean. Classically handsome. His lips twitched into a hesitant, guarded smile when his eyes met Kurt's but he didn't approach any further.  
  
Tina had dragged a chair up to his bedside and sat down. Kurt returned the smile that still hadn't left her face, but his eyes kept sliding back towards the man, drawn like a body inevitably falling down a slippery slope.  
  
And maybe - just maybe - there could be some perks to him still being celibate.

  
*

  
"It's so good to finally see a familiar face. Although I have to admit that you've... changed."  
  
"By that you mean put on a distinct amount of weight?" Tina teasingly replied. "Yeah. A combination of genetics, years and pregnancy will do that to you."  
  
"You've got kids?"  
  
"Just the one. But we're thinking about having another."  
  
"We as in-"  
  
"Me and my husband." She hopped slightly on her seat. "Guess who."  
  
Kurt glanced at the other man in the room, but from the way Tina had spoken it probably wasn't him, so who-  
  
"No. Mike?"  
  
Tina nodded happily.  
  
"Oh, Tina, that's amazing!" Kurt exclaimed, taking and squeezing her hands. "You two were made for each other, I always knew, I'm so happy for you."  
  
And if there was an ache inside, a flare of envy, because he didn't have that, had never had that, then it was easy to ignore.

  
*

  
"So, if the gentleman over there isn't your husband, may I ask who...?"  
  
Tina seemed surprised that he had to ask. "Oh, yes. Kurt, this is my friend and colleague, Blaine Anderson."  
  
The man finally stepped forward and reached out a hand.  
  
"Kurt Hummel," Kurt said as he shook it. "It's a pleasure."  
  
"Likewise," Blaine replied, smile polite and controlled.  
  
"I've known Blaine for quite a while," Tina said, then hesitated. "So have you."  
  
"Oh." Kurt met Blaine's eyes again but no, there was nothing, no memories, no recognition. "I'm sorry. Were we close?"  
  
A strange expression passed over Blaine's features. "Not really, no. So don't worry." His pager went off, making him glance down. "Duty calls. I'll see you later, Tina. Kurt." A pause. "I'm glad you're awake."  
  
"He works in the pediatric ward," Tina said after he'd left. "The kids love him."  
  
 _They're probably not the only ones_.

  
*

  
There's something about a hug - something that makes a vestige of primal instinct stir in you, that raises an echo from the earliest childhood. It makes you give in and relax in ways nothing else does, unravels the tightest coils buried deep inside, out of reach. For a second you forget the world, forget that you are lost or scared - for a second, everything is okay. You don't have to hold yourself together, you let go, and yet you won't go to pieces because you're firmly surrounded, carefully enclosed, lovingly embraced.  
  
There's something about a hug that brings you peace.  
  
Kurt closed his eyes, breathed in the familiar scent of laundry detergent and dust, of cologne that didn't quite cover the underlying smell of sweat, of motor oil that still lingered after all these years.  
  
Of home.  
  
"It's good to see you, Dad."  
  
"It's good to see you too, Kurt."

  
*

  
"I can't believe it took you that long to come," Kurt scolded. "I gather the political career's still going strong?"  
  
Burt grinned. "You bet it is. You're looking at a senator right now."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"I'm in the middle of my first term - and maybe planning for a second."  
  
"Be careful," Kurt fretted. "It's great you do something you love and get to make a difference, but you're not getting any younger-"  
  
The man in front of him was ten years older than he remembered - ten very visible years.  
  
"I _know_. I also have a doctor keeping an extremely close, expensive eye on me."  
  
Clearly that conversation was closed.  
  
"What about Carole?" Kurt asked, disappointed by her absence.  
  
"She's great. Busy. Lots of campaigns for discharged soldiers, LGBT rights. Road safety."  
  
Kurt nodded at that, acutely feeling the absence of another person he would've wanted here, if things had been different.

  
*

  
The doctors had given him the all clear that very morning, so Kurt said:  
  
"You're right on time to bring me home. I mean, back to my place." He realized he had no idea where it was. "Is it far away? I hope nothing went wrong during my absence."  
  
"We'll take a cab - and we'll see."  
  
Kurt frowned slightly. "You haven't been there? Where are your bags, then?"  
  
"At the hotel," Burt replied, like it was obvious.  
  
Kurt's frown deepened. "Dad, you don't have to pay for - unless I don't have a guest room?"  
  
"You do."  
  
"Then why-"  
  
"Kurt," Burt interrupted, putting a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's not like I can't afford it. And to be honest I don't feel comfortable in your flat, so..."  
  
"Oh." That didn't bode well. "Well, I'll have take your word on it for now. I have no idea what it looks like."

  
*

  
Tina slid into the room right after Burt had left to check that everything was in order.  
  
"I hear you're being discharged."  
  
" _Finally_ ," Kurt replied, checking how his sweater fit over the light splinter on his left wrist. "Not that the company left anything to be desired."  
  
Tina returned his smile. She'd dropped by almost every day he'd been kept in observation. It had been nicely comforting.  
  
He hadn't seen Blaine again, though.  
  
"My colleague Jan is organizing a small gathering on Saturday to celebrate," he said. "I was wondering if you'd like to come. Mike, too." As pleasant as it had been to talk to her, Kurt had gotten the impression that it wasn't a common occurrence. That didn't sit well with him. "And Blaine," he added, like an afterthought.  
  
Tina's brow twitched in surprise. "I'll ask him if he can. But Mike and I would love to come."

  
*

  
Blaine did come, which Kurt hadn't thought he would, wearing clothes Kurt couldn't help but appreciate.  
  
"Nice bow tie," he said after they'd greeted each other.  
  
Blaine glanced down and let out a strange, self-depreciating laugh. "Yeah, right," he muttered under his breath in a way that made Kurt pause.  
  
"I mean it," he felt the need to add, because it sounded like Blaine thought he was being made fun of. "It really pulls your outfit together."  
  
"Oh." That was obviously unexpected. "Thank you."  
  
The words were followed by an awkward silence.  
  
"You must wear it often. The edges are a bit worn."  
  
"It's one of my favorites," Blaine replied. "To be honest I can't help but feel disappointed their comeback in the 2010's didn't last longer."  
  
"Ah. But we both know that good fashion is timeless, don't we?"  
  
Blaine's smile widened, relaxed, and Kurt felt curiously proud.

  
*

  
"This is nice," Tina said, rescuing Kurt and Blaine from their stilted attempt at conversation. Kurt was trying, but how was he to manage small talk when he didn't remember anything from the past years? Blaine was polite but unhelpful, strangely tense under his cautious smile.  
  
"I hope so," Kurt replied. He surveyed the room, the small amount of guests, and found himself adding: "I wanted to invite Rachel, but-"  
  
She hadn't come to see him. She hadn't called. Like she hadn't known about his accident, or hadn't cared.  
  
They'd been growing apart, he remembered - she busy with auditions, inching closer to her dreams, he still hurting from the rejection, fighting for a place in the cut-throat world of fashion. He'd been thinking that it might be best for them to temporarily part ways, until they were both settled, until he'd healed.  
  
Only it hadn't been temporary, it seemed.

  
*

  
It was easier to watch Blaine from afar, engrossed in a debate with Tina. It felt safer.  
  
"They're quite a pair, aren't they?"  
  
Kurt briefly glanced at Mike, perched on the armrest beside him.  
  
"If I didn't know Blaine was gay, I'd be worried. I mean, he's a _doctor_."  
  
 _And a handsome one_. Kurt smiled and ignored the feeling prickling through him at having something he'd hopefully pondered over confirmed.  
  
"It's funny Tina ended up in medicine, though."  
  
"Tell me about it. My parents are delighted."  
  
"Did _your_ dream come true?" Kurt asked. Blaine's hands were dancing, twirling then jumping as he talked.  
  
"It did. I'm nearing the end of my dancing career, but the ballet I'm choreographing is turning out great and I've begun giving classes."  
  
"Good thing your wife is here in case of injury," Kurt teased half-heartedly as Blaine burst out laughing, lighting up the room.

  
*

  
The apartment was quiet and empty after his guests had left. First Tina and Mike, who didn't want to make their babysitter wait, then Blaine and Laura, sharing a cab because they lived in the same direction, then Jan and Eric on feet that weren't quite stable, tripping on exhaustion and alcohol.  
  
Kurt sat on the couch, his own unfinished glass in hand. The room and its subtle arrangement of classy furniture had faded into darkness. Glasses and plates were scattered everywhere, on the coffee table, the shelves, the window ledge - and there was no one to help Kurt carry them to the kitchen, to dry them while he washed, to softly laugh at yet another story while they put them away.  
  
For a second Kurt felt like the emptiness in the room would swallow him whole. He closed his eyes, breathed, downed his wine.  
  
He was just tired.  
  
Probably.

  
*

  
On Friday evening, he called his father.  
  
"Everything okay?" Burt asked at once.  
  
Kurt frowned. "Yes. Why wouldn't it?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know. S'not like you just came out of the hospital or anything." A pause. "So you're just calling for no reason?"  
  
"It's Friday," Kurt said.  
  
Burt emitted a sound like a muffled _Oh_. "It is."  
  
"Let me guess, there's no Friday night phone calls anymore? Is that not allowed for boys over thirty?"  
  
The teasing barely concealed the confused hurt underneath.  
  
Burt sighed. "No, just- You got busy, _I_ got busy, and we switched to Saturday but then you started working Saturdays too and-"  
  
And a lot of excuses to avoid saying that after a while, they'd both simply stopped trying.  
  
Kurt felt his lips tighten.  
  
"Well. I'm officially reinstating weekly phone calls," he announced.  
  
"Okay. Good."  
  
"Fine."  
  
An awkward silence followed.  
  
"So. Tell me about your week."

  
*

  
Small things were coming back to him, like the doctors had hopefully predicted, bits and pieces - and not so small things too, memories he never consciously remembered but suddenly had without knowing why or how, like they waited for the moment he wasn't looking to sneak back in, or rather back out from behind the wall the accident had erected in his mind.  
  
Some of them were innocuous facts; most of them weren't quite tangible, simple pieces and flashes, but they carried a certain atmosphere with them, impressions, a global state of mind that was becoming clearer with every day that passed, with every detail that discreetly slipped through the veil, until he couldn't deny what the feeling permeating through everything was.  
  
He wasn't happy. The man he was, had been, might become again, wasn't happy. He felt bitter, harsh, hardened by things he couldn't yet understand... Lonely.  
  
Very lonely.

  
*

  
He seized the opportunity lunch offered to flee the office. He couldn't bear the way his boss and colleagues watched him like hawks, following his every step, observing his every gesture, listening to his voice, waiting to see if he would stumble, falter and thus prove he wasn't to be trusted anymore.  
  
He didn't draw anything; he couldn't figure out where he'd been going with his current designs and when he'd tried something new the movements of his hand had felt strange, too nimble, too smooth, honed by years of experience he'd lost, out of his control.  
  
He stepped outside, could finally breathe.  
  
"Tina," he said when she answered his call. " _Please_ tell me the hospital allows you to have a proper lunch."  
  
"It does but-" she stuttered. "I'm already meeting with Mike and Blaine."  
  
"Oh," he said, feeling himself deflate.  
  
"... But you're welcome to join us if you want."

  
*

  
Mike Chang talking about his daughter was something adorable to witness, yet it was the conversation between Blaine and Tina that caught Kurt's attention.  
  
"They're doing _The Boy from Oz_?" he asked. "When?"  
  
Blaine raised his eyebrows. "The representations start next week."  
  
"I have to see it." A pause. "You seem surprised."  
  
Blaine shrugged. "The only time I heard you talk about musicals I remember choice words like _immature_ or _unrealistic_ or-"  
  
"I get it," Kurt cut him off. "Apparently I have said a lot of things in the past that I don't think anymore. Or don't think yet. Depends on how you look at it, I suppose."  
  
Blaine caught the bitterness lurking in his voice.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said. "Do you- I can see if I can get another ticket."  
  
A show on Broadway and Blaine's company. Like it was something Kurt could refuse. "I'd appreciate it. Thank you."

  
*

  
It was surprisingly hard to find an outfit for the evening. Kurt had an extensive wardrobe, but no piece bold or vibrant enough to express how he felt. The cuts were too severe, the colors too subdued, and he couldn't find the accessories to offset it.  
  
He wanted to look perfect.  
  
He met Blaine there, because it wasn't a date - a fact he forgot almost at once, breathlessly saying: "Don't you look handsome."  
  
Blaine ducked his head under his fedora, his smile quietly proud. "Thank you. You look great too."  
  
Kurt bit his lips to hide his smile.  
  
"Here's your ticket. I couldn't get two side by side on such short notice, but I hope you'll be well seated."  
  
"It's okay," Kurt assured, masking his disappointment. "How much do I owe you?"  
  
"Don't worry about it," Blaine dismissed, although this wasn't a date.  
  
They parted ways to find their seats.

  
*

  
Kurt didn't move from his place once the performance was over. The curtain fell, the actors left the stage, the applause faded away and he remained seated, arms tightly crossed, jaw tightly held, eyes burning with held back tears.  
  
This was how Blaine found him. He politely stepped back to let the last people out of the row, then hesitantly approached.  
  
Kurt didn't move. Blaine sat down slowly, looking like he was ready to bolt at the first sign that his presence was unwelcome. He made an aborted gesture towards Kurt, brought his hand back onto his lap.  
  
"Kurt?" he finally asked, voice low and careful. "What's wrong?"  
  
Kurt parted his lips; his breath came out in a long, shuddering breath.  
  
"Nothing," he deflected, tried to shake his head, to shake himself out of this. "It's just-"  
  
He met Blaine's dark, concerned eyes.  
  
"Just-"  
  
And it all came pouring out.

  
*

  
It was everything and nothing - this life that was his, yet fitted him all wrong.  
  
He worked in fashion, but the designs he'd been working on _baffled_ him: straight lines, sensible cuts, faded colors - no fantasy, no dare, no passion. And what had he to show for apart from that?  
  
He was alone. Half his colleagues treated him like an enemy, and his friends... Tina barely hid her surprise every time he called; he'd lost contact with Rachel, didn't even _know_ where Santana was, didn't dare try and contact Mercedes. His father might pretend otherwise, but it was obvious they'd barely been talking. As for a boyfriend, _someone_... Maybe Kurt hadn't found him, had only been disappointed and hurt - he still didn't _remember_ \- but his thirtieth birthday had come and gone, and it was like he'd stopped looking, hoping, _believing_.  
  
This was his life. He didn't like it one bit.

  
*

  
Blaine was awkwardly rubbing his back, trying and failing to find words of comfort. Letting go that way in front of someone he barely knew was utterly embarrassing and yet didn't help Kurt stave off any of his tears.  
  
"Come on," Blaine coaxed when it became obvious the theater employees were hoping they'd finally leave. "I'll bring you home."  
  
"And that's another thing," Kurt exclaimed. "I hate my apartment, I _hate_ it, it's-"  
  
As sophisticatedly cold and impersonal as a picture in a magazine - and he couldn't decide if it was that way because it expressed how his former self had felt about his life or if the man had genuinely enjoyed it and it was simply him, now, that hated what he'd become.  
  
"It isn't _home_."  
  
"... Do you want to go to mine for tonight, then?" Blaine tentatively suggested. "I have a guest room."  
  
Kurt accepted, feeling pathetically grateful.

  
*

  
"How come we weren't friends?" Kurt asked, his forehead pressed against the subway window, too exhausted to care about how dirty it was. "You're so nice."  
  
Blaine didn't reply at first. Then, quietly: "I guess you didn't like nice people back then."  
  
Then he stood up; the train had reached the station.  
  
The walk to the apartment was short, the apartment itself smaller than Kurt's - but warmer, lived-in. Homey.  
  
"Are you sure it's okay?" he asked, threading through the clutter, feeling out of place and incredibly curious because every single detail was another touch on the vast tapestry that was Blaine Anderson.  
  
"I have a guest room. Usually for my brother Cooper, but-"  
  
"Cooper. Anderson? Of freecreditrating.com?"  
  
Blaine laughed. "Every time I start to forget... But yes. He's moved on to the other side of the camera now."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Kurt would have to catch up on some mindless television.

  
*

  
Blaine told him to make himself comfortable - to make himself _at home_ \- then disappeared into his room.  
  
Kurt looked for milk and nutmeg in the kitchen, found both and let himself sink into the familiar motions of warming it up, the well-known smell wafting up to him as he stirred.  
  
Who would have thought that anything from his teenage years would ever become a comfort?  
  
Blaine came back, hair loosened, in an old university t-shirt and sweatpants. He'd made the bed in the guest room, he said, and taken out some of his brother's clothes for Kurt to sleep in.  
  
He sat with Kurt as they drank from their cups, not saying a word. Then, after making sure Kurt would be alright, he went to bed.  
  
Kurt remained at the table, thinking. When dawn came, the darkness slowly seeping away from the sky, he'd come to a decision.

  
*

  
"I can't thank you enough." He stood in the doorway to Blaine's apartment, feeling brittle and exhausted but strangely better. "And I'm sorry - you went through all this trouble with the bed and I didn't even use it."  
  
Blaine smiled, mellow and sleepy still even though he'd showered and dressed.  
  
Kurt briefly wished he would see that smile every morning.  
  
"It's okay," Blaine said. "I'll simply leave it for the next time Cooper visits."  
  
A silence followed, not quite awkward.  
  
"So..."  
  
Kurt was spared from searching for the right words by Blaine stepping forward to draw him into a hug. He froze. Then Blaine stroked a hand up his back to envelop him better and he found himself relaxing, closed his eyes, returned the embrace.  
  
"Take care of yourself," Blaine murmured when they parted.  
  
Kurt nodded, not trusting his voice.  
  
He left feeling warm and cold at the same time.

  
*

  
Washington wasn't what Kurt pictured when he thought of home. It wasn't Lima either, it wasn't a _place_. It was two people (three, if he was being honest; even after all these years). And it didn't matter where they were.  
  
Burt and Carole were surprised he'd decided to come for two whole weeks over the holidays ("Usually we consider ourselves lucky if we get you out of the city for two _days_."), but they welcomed him anyway.  
  
He rested and followed Carole around, helped her decorate the house with more flourish than she ever had had the courage to and accompanied her to many a charity event - remembering with a smile a time when she'd been a single mom wearing nothing but acid-washed jeans.  
  
In the evenings he talked with his dad. About the past. About now. About where they stood.  
  
He didn't mention Blaine. Wasn't quite ready to.

  
*

  
_Dear Ice Queen,_  
  
 _I heard you hit your head and had a mental breakdown because auntie 'Tana wasn't here to kiss it better. You didn't have to go that far to protest against my departure. But then you always love making a scene, don't you?_  
  
 _I'd do without that crap year-long assignment too, though. Spanish girls are boring commitment addicts masquerading as hussies but pathetically failing at the last hurdle, guys compensate their lack of height by being enormous dicks that don't know how to get a hint, and everyone seems to think Americans are retards. Good thing I get paid for writing the truth of things and being an irreverent bitch while I'm at it, or Snix would already have committed homicide._  
  
 _PS: Good job on taking advantage of the situation to infiltrate the Chang household. After all, it's only a matter of time before Mickey grows fat._

  
*

  
He came back to New York with renewed strength and resolve.  
  
The office was pleased about the sketches he'd sent while he was away. Nowhere near his usual style, they said, but intriguing, youthfully daring, an unexpected but welcome change; something he should explore further.  
  
He didn't tell them that it was no purposeful decision from his part, no artistic choice.  
  
It left him time and space for other things. For himself.  
  
He started with his apartment. In spite of his salary he couldn't afford to move, couldn't buy other furniture. He changed the disposition of everything until it was meant for comfort rather than aesthetics, arranged the living-room to make it possible and agreeable to work from home, added small touches, personal and quirky, with decorations, lamps, throw pillows and covers, pictures.  
  
When it was over it felt more like a place where he could live, breathe, be.

  
*

  
He invited Blaine over once he was finished.  
  
"This is nice," Blaine said as he looked around, curious.  
  
Kurt told him to make himself comfortable and went to prepare tea. When he came back Blaine had sunk into the couch and was running his fingers along the brightly colored silk square adorning the coffee table and offsetting the severity of the dark grey seats.  
  
Kurt returned his smile, pleased.  
  
"You're probably wondering why I asked you to come," he said after they'd both settled down with a cup. "I wanted to thank you. For the night at the theatre."  
  
"It was nothing."  
  
"It wasn't." _It was everything_. "You didn't have to, but you were there."  
  
Blaine wordlessly looked down at his tea.  
  
"I have another favor to ask," Kurt cautiously went on. He aimed for lightness: "It involves another show, if it helps convince you. And I'm paying this time."

  
*

  
Years ago Rachel Berry had auditioned for the role of Fanny Brice - and been rejected by virtue of her being too young, too immature, too inexperienced.  
  
It had been a hard blow for a girl who'd wanted everything that role represented so much. But she'd gotten over it, turned that heavy disappointment into a formative experience. She'd kept working towards her dream with a steely resolve, a patience, a single-minded dedication she'd become famous for. It had paid off: she'd gotten her breakthrough and was now a renowned actress, a reference in the theater world.  
  
Her acting and dancing were flawless, her voice enriched with a subtlety that stole into the audience's heart and played its emotions like a bow on a string.  
  
At the end of the performance Kurt had to dab his eyes.  
  
Undoubtedly the directors of that first musical were regretting not giving her a chance.

  
*

  
There were a dozen people waiting by the stage door. Kurt stood a little further away, alone but for Blaine behind him, a quiet support.  
  
The main actress finally came out, greeted her admirers. She smiled, thanked and signed autographs with practiced ease - but froze when her eyes met Kurt's.  
  
His smile felt strained and yet impossible to refrain. He held out a single red rose. "Rachel Berry," he said, voice choked. "You were the brightest star out there tonight."  
  
Her face crumpled.  
  
"Kurt," she cried, rushing towards him to throw her arms around his neck in spite of the security cordon, in spite of the years and distance. "I missed you so much."  
  
He returned her embrace, careful not to hurt her with her rose. "I missed you too. I'm so sorry."  
  
"It's okay." She patted his back, probably feeling how close he was to crumbling too. "It's okay."

  
*

  
She didn't have the time to talk tonight, she had to go and rest for the next performance, but-  
  
"Can I call you? After the show's over?"  
  
"Of course." Kurt searched for one of his business cards, couldn't find one.  
  
Someone cleared their throat - Blaine. He'd ripped a page out of his small notebook and reached it out to Kurt with a pen and a tissue. Kurt laughed, took the tissue to wipe his eyes and nose, took the pen and paper to write.  
  
Rachel significantly widened her eyes at Kurt as she took the note. He shook his head ( _there is nothing here_ ); she raised her eyebrows ( _I don't believe you_ ) - and wasn't it funny, that they could still hold a whole conversation without exchanging a word?  
  
She climbed into the car waiting for her. Kurt breathed. Turned to Blaine.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Blaine smiled, warm and soft. "My pleasure."

  
*

  
The show came to a close and Rachel called. Kurt hadn't let himself hope.  
  
They met over coffee and laughed over horror stories about work.  
  
"You've changed," she said in a lull of conversation.  
  
Kurt shrugged. "Is change the right word?"  
  
He'd told her about his amnesia. He remembered more everyday, facts and feelings, and yes, some of them he refused to let define him anymore - but it wasn't everything. His past was still an incomplete puzzle and the missing pieces out of his reach.  
  
"And here I romantically thought that it had to do with the gentleman who was with you."  
  
"Blaine?"  
  
Rachel tapped her finger against her lips. "He looked familiar."  
  
"He's a friend of Tina's. Maybe you saw him at her wedding?"  
  
"That's it," she replied. "I thought he was your date, actually. And here you go, telling me there's nothing!"  
  
Kurt felt all his insides freeze.

  
*

  
He'd come over to Tina's to see her wedding pictures. He'd been perplexed by his own expression during the speeches, a distant impassiveness instead of a teary smile.  
  
There had been several pictures of him and Blaine, talking, dancing. He'd looked tipsy, Blaine on his way to drunk. At the time he'd mostly worried because none of these had sparked any memory.  
  
"I'd never seen you getting along so well," Tina said now, soft and sad, when he asked.  
  
Kurt frowned. "What do you mean?"  
  
She looked, for a second, like a deer caught in headlights. "I don't know. I don't know what it was about Blaine, but... You really didn't like him. And made no secret of it. And after the wedding..." She shrugged.  
  
Kurt remained silent.  
  
"Tina," he finally said. "You and I... We weren't really friends anymore either, were we?"  
  
"We kept in touch," she diplomatically answered.

  
*

  
"Why are we here?"  
  
Blaine glanced at the coffee shop around them. "You don't like it?"  
  
"No, I don't mean _here_ here, I mean. You and I. Having coffee. Together."  
  
"We're friends."  
  
"It's come to my attention that it wasn't always the case."  
  
Blaine's expression turned uneasy.  
  
"I thought we simply didn't know each other well," Kurt went on. "And you said nothing to make me think otherwise. But Tina..." Blaine was definitely avoiding his gaze. "It was more than that, wasn't it? Worse than that. I was horrible to you." A pause. "And yet here we are."  
  
"You're different now."  
  
"Blaine."  
  
His face was careful, guarded. "Everyone deserves someone to care."  
  
"I'm not your patient, Blaine."  
  
"And your former self would've said I'm a hopeless idiot," he tried to joke, but his smile was feeble, the look in his eyes so brittle Kurt didn't dare push the matter further.

  
*

  
"I have another question."  
  
"...Okay."  
  
"What happened at Tina's wedding?"  
  
Blaine almost choked on his coffee.  
  
"Nothing," he replied.  
  
"Blaine."  
  
"No, really," he insisted, his expression unreadable. "I know that people speculate, that the way things were would be easy to explain with a hook-up turned bad but - no." He glanced down, fumbled with his cup. "I won't say I didn't think something might happen, back then. I was tipsy, you were... I don't know." His fingers stilled. "But you were nice to me for once, and for a second I thought-"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing." Blaine kept his eyes down. "That the way you usually were wasn't the real you." A pause. "I was wrong."  
  
"Is that really what you think? Even now?"  
  
Blaine looked like he might regret his words, then sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know. I don't know what to think anymore."

  
*

  
Several weeks passed before he saw Blaine again, and despite the legitimate reasons Blaine gave him, Kurt couldn't help but feel like he was being avoided.  
  
"I thought I could do this," Blaine explained when they finally met. "Being your friend. Because you needed someone and I-" He stopped, shook his head. "But it's hard. I keep wondering when you'll remember, if things will go back to the way they were."  
  
"But I do remember." At Blaine's sharp, surprised look Kurt added: "Not everything but... enough."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"And I've been remembering parts of it, us." A pause. "Blaine, it won't go back to that, not if we don't let it. I- like being your friend."  
  
It was surprisingly hard to get that sentence out, left him feeling naked, vulnerable.  
  
It didn't cover a fraction of what Kurt felt, being with Blaine. Blaine who whispered:  
  
"I like being your friend too."

  
*

  
There were other things he remembered - other men, not many, but enough. Enough disappointment and hurt, enough betrayal. Not all of it, not yet, but enough.  
  
(Enough to understand why his past self felt so closed-off, wary, paralyzed by the mere idea of opening up to anyone.)  
  
And, he realized, he had no one to talk about it. His reconnection with Rachel was too new and tentative; Santana was too far away, busy; colleagues like Jan felt too much like strangers; Tina...  
  
He called his dad and knew the moment Burt answered that it wasn't something he'd ever been able to talk about with him. It was only at the very end that he gathered enough courage to ask:  
  
"Did I ever mention a Blaine? Before?"  
  
Burt hummed thoughtfully but: "Not that I remember. Why? Someone important?"  
  
"No," Kurt replied, too fast. "I mean, it's nothing. He's a friend."

  
*

  
He met with Blaine for a walk through New York in the first shimmers of spring. The morning was cool and crisp, light streaming through the quiet, sleepy streets.  
  
They talked, Kurt harshly judgmental about some of his colleagues, Blaine teasing him about it. Kurt tried not to get defensive - he knew he would have, before. With every day that passed, he felt it more clearly.  
  
He skillfully changed the subject. Blaine glanced at him, grinning, not fooled for a second. The light hit his face, lit up his features, turned his eyes golden, and Kurt felt, _remembered_ -  
  
The last piece of the puzzle. His voice ran away with his thoughts, his breath.  
  
A cloud hid the sun; the moment passed, leaving him silent, heart painfully beating in his chest, off-kilter and frozen - like he'd almost toppled over into a crevice and still felt the fright of the fall.

  
*

  
_Dear Ice Queen,_  
  
 _I heard that you've apparently decided to get it on with The Hobbit. While I've never understood your fixation with the guy and had hoped your accident would've forcefully knocked it out of you, I am glad you've opted for finally tapping his admittedly passable ass in order to get that out of your system and move on._  
  
 _I myself might finally have found a woman who doesn't confuse a series of hook-ups with a lasting relationship. It's been nice. No worries, though, Snix is still coming back in September. There's a ticket with my name on it and rest assured that that plane won't leave the ground without me in it. Everything feels ancient here and one year is clearly all I have before I reach the expiration date I never knew I had before I stepped onto that outdated continent._  
  
 _PS: I expect details._

  
*

  
"It feels like I was in love with him," he confessed to his dad, picking up their previous conversation because he couldn't keep this to himself, because there was no one else.  
  
He understood everything now, remembered the feeling - the utter terror of letting someone in, of not knowing if he wanted to but being affected anyway, of desperately scrabbling for control when he couldn't have it, only had the guise of it, evading the words and emotions with scorn and distance, because distance was safe and meanness meant Blaine wouldn't come closer.  
  
Yet part of him had longed for that closeness - and Blaine had never known, why hadn't Blaine just known, just seen past the disparaging remarks, the cold looks, everything? His feelings had felt so acute, untamable, stifling, surely they'd been obvious, ridiculously so.  
  
"And now?" his dad asked, because he knew his son, because he always _saw_.

  
*

  
Now...  
  
Something had tipped over, irrevocably changed. And everything else was accelerating.  
  
He was swept up in the next collection, was suddenly struggling to defend his ideas against his superiors, against ambitious peers trying to undermine him by mentioning his incomplete recovery. When he and Blaine came together, too rarely, it was becoming more and more difficult to take off the armor he built around himself - and it was becoming impossible to ignore what seized his throat every time their eyes met, turning what had been a solace into a new source of tension.  
  
He saw Blaine recognize the pattern, grow confused, start to retreat. And he couldn't discern if his feelings - panic, helplessness, frustration - belonged to the present or were a memory from before, a sign that they were now slowly but surely beginning to revert to what they'd been, despite what Kurt had claimed, because he hadn't _known_.

  
*

  
"Kurt, are you all right?" Rachel asked, and their renewed friendship, at least, seemed to hold, if only because she was that much more stubborn and sure about it than Blaine.  
  
Kurt's smile felt strained on his lips. "I'm just exhausted from work."  
  
 _From everything_.  
  
She didn't believe him, but was respectful enough not to call him out on it. "You'll tell me if I can do anything?"  
  
"Of course," he replied. And he meant it - because she couldn't do anything, not about this, no one could do anything about this: him, remembering.  
  
Because he remembered now, and sometimes wished he'd stop, stop relearning how to wear his life and feel comfortable in its constricting cut and sharp edges, stop feeling like he fit better in it every day only because because he was wearing it so much - too much.  
  
The doctor said he'd make a complete recovery in time.

  
*

  
He and Blaine went to see _Le Cid_. It was how it worked now, already: no more coffee dates, they needed the buffer of a performance to avoid acknowledging how awry the situation was going. They greeted each other uncertainly, barely spoke before the curtain rose.  
  
Afterwards Blaine was more relaxed, as he often was, sighing about love and duty.  
   
Kurt felt like his insides had been turned upside down. He almost wished someone would take the decision out of his hands like the King did for Chimene - that a stranger would walk up and put words on everything Kurt felt but couldn't express, would tell him what to _do_ and force a resolution on him, no matter what it was.  
  
Blaine glanced at him and Kurt barely managed to hold back the gibe that sprung onto his tongue, mocking his naivety. He forced a smile instead, remained resolutely silent.

  
*

  
"Why did you take that leap with Carole?" he asked his dad. It was late and he felt drained, but he knew where even one exception to their phone calls could lead. "After mom, after all the hurt, weren't you afraid?"  
  
He knew his dad had hoped his feelings were returned; but there had to have been more than that - because there was something in the way Blaine had looked at Kurt, in the way he still did sometimes... And yet he hadn't acted on it, wasn't even trying to stop what was happening, as if what they'd found in-between wasn't enough, wasn't worth fighting back.  
  
And Kurt didn't know if it was, didn't know how to hope or try, not on his own.  
  
"I was," Burt said. "But I knew that if I didn't give it a shot, I'd always wonder, and  always regret it. Simple as that."

  
*

  
He asked Rachel, realizing too late it might be a mistake. When they'd grown apart she still hadn't quite recovered from Finn's death; it had felt like she maybe never would. But she smiled and started to talk about her 'companion' - he worked for an auction company, was no artist himself but had an excellent eye. He loved the performing arts too, came to every one of Rachel's musicals, loved them, loved her.  
  
Her smile as she spoke was small, quiet, secret - and Kurt hadn't thought he'd ever see the day Rachel Berry would fall in love with a person rather than the drama love entailed.  
  
Even their meeting had nothing grandiose: she'd been to a charity event and he'd been among the guests, he had recognized her and expressed his admiration. They'd talked the whole evening, he'd fumblingly asked her out. She'd felt flattered, touched, had agreed and-  
  
And.

  
*

  
He dreamed - or was it a memory?  
  
It was of him knowing with unforgiving clarity what the rest of his life would be, careening down an endless road, the rhythm of his journey only defined by the rush of one collection after the other, maybe rolling towards achievement, the height of a career, if he didn't break down, didn't lose his drive, a feat he doubted he'd achieve with nothing but his waning inspiration to power him through, but he wouldn't have a choice, because if he skidded at a turn, fell down in a ditch, he'd be left with nothing, no one, having left his family and friends in his rearview mirror to focus on the road ahead and not lose control, having barely caught a glimpse of what happiness might've been, if only-  
  
He woke up with a start, panicked, gasping, sheets twisted around him like a vice.

  
*

  
He didn't sleep again that night.  
  
He rifled through what pictures he could find, frustrated at how scarce they were - copies from Tina's wedding and rare shots he'd surreptitiously taken since the accident, during his outings with Blaine.  
  
He looked at them for a long time, at _him_ , let his feelings settle and expand inside of him, here alone in his living room where no one would know, where it was safe, where _he_ was safe.  
  
He tried to imagine a whole life where these few scraps would be all he'd ever have, where these few weeks of forgetfulness would be nothing but a short respite. And he felt a quiet certainty spread through him: he couldn't live like that. He might've thought he could, once, but he'd been wrong. He couldn't. He didn't want to.  
  
He _refused_ to.  
  
Dawn broke over the New York skyline. He was thirty five.

  
*

  
Another evening, another show. It was a ballet this time, recommended by Mike. And maybe because there had been no words, because the spectacle had remained more open to interpretation, but Kurt felt quiet afterwards, lingering in a bauble of calm and music that kept his worries and panic at bay.  
  
"Walk me home?" he asked. Blaine looked intrigued, but agreed.  
  
They barely talked at first, and then in hushed voices as if afraid of breaking something. They talked about the dancers, about the breathtaking group number in the second half, about the music. In the mild June night, Blaine had taken off his jacket; Kurt wanted to run his hands down his arms, feel the skin and definition of muscles under the fabric.  
  
"Kurt?"  
  
He glanced over his shoulder, at Blaine who had stopped walking. They were in front of his building. Already.  
  
He wanted to keep walking forever.

  
*

  
"Are you okay?" Blaine asked.  
  
"I'm terrified," Kurt replied.  
  
Blaine didn't question it, simply looked at him. Kurt didn't know what it was, the otherworldly feeling left over from the music and dance, the light of the thin, bright crescent of moon overhead, the reflexion of street lights in Blaine's dark eyes, the contrast between his dark hair, his skin and his pale shirt-  
  
"I could fall in love with you," Kurt whispered. "If you- If we-" His mouth kept moving but no sound came out, his voice had left him with his breath, and you weren't supposed to still feel so afraid of anything after thirty, not anymore, not like this, you were supposed to-  
  
"Kurt," Blaine murmured; his own voice was trembling but there, awed and so much surer that Kurt's. His hand came to cup Kurt's jaw, and then his lips were on Kurt's, and everything stopped.

  
*

  
It lasted a couple of seconds, it lasted an eternity. Then suddenly the world started turning again, its wheel resettling in their axis. A siren blared through the streets, a shout rung out, and when their lips parted Kurt's breath shuddered out of him. He blinked. Blaine's eyes were wide and dark, no quite believing, uncertain as if the rules of the world he'd known might not apply anymore.  
  
"Kurt," he said again, and it sounded like, _I could fall in love with you too_.  
  
Kurt kissed him again. He couldn't help it; he closed his eyes and clutched at Blaine's shirt. His fingers only relaxed when he felt Blaine lean into him, cup his waist, and then he let his hands roam, run over Blaine's shoulders, his back. He breathed in for what felt like the first time in years, kissed Blaine again and kissed him and kissed him.

  
*

  
"Do you want to come up?" he asked when the faint breeze started to feel cool on his heated skin.  
  
Blaine hesitated. "I'm not su-"  
  
"Just for coffee," Kurt explained at once. "Not for that, I'm not ready for that, not yet, but I-" His fingers lingered on the collar of Blaine's shirt, his perfectly knotted bow tie. "I'm not ready for this night to be over either."  
  
Blaine kissed him again like he felt the same. "Yeah, okay. Yes."  
  
Kurt held his hand on their way up, gave him a hanger for his jacket once they were inside and kissed him again in the kitchen. He regretted changing his first offer to tea, because water took so much less time to boil than coffee to brew.  
  
They sat at the table while they drank, feet and fingers nudging each other, testing, timid but smiling through their willingness to try.

  
*

  
A little over two weeks passed before he took a breath and told his dad.  
  
Burt was the first to know. Kurt had needed time, needed to wait until everything wasn't so completely new and fragile, until what he and Blaine had created that evening had started to look like it might stand on its own one day. They hadn't gone out again, keeping their dates to one of their flats, away from the wide, strange world.  
  
Even after two weeks it was still so frail and young - but Kurt couldn't think of a better person than his dad to entrust that fawn of a relationship to, because there were no better hands than Burt's to hold it and keep it safe.  
  
"I'm so happy for you," Burt said. "So happy and so proud."  
  
Kurt let out a faint laugh, smiling through the tears that had sprung to his eyes.

  
*

  
Their first steps were testing, careful, the steps of two students trying out a new dance. They kept glancing down at their feet, stumbling and bumping into each other, far too used to doing this alone instead of in a pair. They were afraid of never getting it right, more than once one of them wavered, wondered if they hadn't better stop now before they could hurt or ridicule themselves - but every time the other managed to reel him back in, hands determinedly held.  
  
And after a while each misstep stopped feeling so dramatic, so dangerous. They relaxed, they learned to move around each other, learned to laugh. They tried and tried - until they gave up on the prescribed exercise and started swaying to their own beat, found their own steps. It was a whole new dance, slow and measured at first, then wider, more extravagant, imperfect but better, _theirs_.

  
*

  
There were bad days - harried day at work when he couldn't get anything right, neither his drawings nor his directives nor his colleagues. June's fashion week was about to begin and nothing was ready. For every decision taken two more seemed to turn up, the whole enterprise an invincible hydra he had to fight with too few allies.  
  
He felt high-strung and tense, ready to snap by the time he left in the evenings, couldn't even force a feeble smile when he met with Blaine.  
  
Blaine's first reaction was to falter; but then he checked Kurt's eyes, took a breath, kissed him in greetings anyway - and everything dissolved, started to lift like the morning mist after a bad dream. Kurt closed his eyes, kissed back.  
  
He had Blaine. There was more to life than what happened in that office. As long as he remembered that, everything would be okay.

  
*

  
Summer settled in the city, filling the streets with warmth. Kurt donned his sunglasses and peeled away several of his layers, much to Blaine's appreciation. He let his fingers run down Kurt's bared arm before he took his hand, let his eyes linger on the open collar of Kurt's shirt. Kurt took in the looks, the touches, felt nervous, almost frightened sometimes, so vulnerable - but also pleased. Wanted.  
  
They spent long evenings rediscovering New York, finding places to watch the sky's ever changing palette, picking a restaurant at random. Over the tablecloth Kurt remembered his evenings at the office, alone; he looked at Blaine and wondered where he'd been, what he'd done, then. Whatever it was, it didn't seem like anyone was missing him and Kurt's heart squeezed at the thought of Blaine being alone too.  
  
He reached out and took Blaine's hand. He was here now.  
  
They were here.

  
*

  
On a Sunday he woke up to Blaine still asleep, face deeply buried in his pillow. He went to the bathroom and when he came back Blaine woke, smiled at him. "Hi."  
  
"Morning."  
  
Blaine leaned over to kiss him. Kurt welcomed it, hand threading though Blaine's crazy curls then trailing down his cheek. There was morning breath but Kurt didn't care, only felt a warm thrill at the rough feel of Blaine's jaw and the musky smell of his body.  
  
He'd thought it would bother him, once - the hair and smell, the sweat, the physical reality of it. How wrong had he been. His fingers brushed over Blaine's chest hair and he closed his eyes to savor the contrast between the wet warmth of Blaine's lips and tongue and the dry burn from his stubble as he kissed down Kurt's neck.  
  
There were few better sensations to wake up to.

  
*

  
They both could free themselves for a week, flew to California-  
  
"- _and got drunk on the beach_ ," Blaine singsonged as he loped along the waterline like a tightrope walker.  
  
"Did I forget they'd changed the receipt for coke?" Kurt laughed, snatching the bottle from Blaine's hand. "I'm cutting you off."  
  
Blaine pivoted on his heels with a grin, slipped an arm around Kurt's waist and kissed him.  
  
They _didn't_ get a motel room. Cooper enthusiastically opened his spacious villa to them and invited them to come see him shoot his latest commercial.  
  
Blaine showed Kurt around L.A. and Kurt led him to a high end establishment where they listened to one Mercedes Jones, to her beautiful, soulful voice.  
  
Kurt didn't get to talk to her - she was a celebrity now - but had flowers sent with a card. He left it to her to choose how things would go from there.

  
*

  
The return to work was brutal. Suddenly they didn't have a second to themselves, let alone for each other.  
  
"I didn't think it would matter!" Blaine exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "It's not like you ever have the time to be with me when _I_ happen to be free."  
  
"I have responsibilities! But at least you don't see _me_ taking on more than I already have!" Kurt retorted, arms crossed.  
  
"Oh, because designing a dress for Ms. Jones isn't extra work, maybe?"  
  
"She's my friend! Excuse me for trying to catch up on _years_ I lost with her because of my stupidity, with everyone, with- with _you_ , although I don't know why I even bother anymore-"  
  
He saw the words register on Blaine's face ( _Years?_ ), couldn't bear it and turned away. He sat down heavily on the couch, passed a hand over his eyes. Refused to cry.  
  
( _Yes, Blaine. Years_.)

  
*

  
A moment passed, silent. Then Kurt felt the couch dip beside him.  
  
"Kurt," Blaine said. His voice was softer, cautious. "Kurt, look at me."  
  
It took an effort, but Kurt did. Blaine's eyes were soft and earnest, unwavering as he took Kurt's hands. He interlaced their fingers and held tight. "It's been years for me too, Kurt."  
  
They'd lost so much time, being afraid.  
  
"I want this to work," Kurt said brokenly. "I want this to work so bad."  
  
"It will work," Blaine replied with quiet certainty. He drew Kurt into a hug. "I'm sorry for not talking with you before I took that shift. I didn't think-" He stopped, realizing he was repeating himself, sighed. "You'll know beforehand next time. I promise."  
  
Kurt brought a hand up to clutch at the back of Blaine's shirt, pressed his forehead to his shoulder. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

  
*

  
"Tell me," Kurt asked, head resting on Blaine's chest, soothed by his quietening breath and heartbeat.  
  
Blaine ran his fingers along Kurt's hairline.  
  
"It was hard. I felt so _drawn_ to you and you... I kept telling myself I'd stop. Stop caring, stop believing there was more to you than the way you acted. But then we'd meet again and..." He trailed off. "You looked so unhappy sometimes."  
  
He had been. And he'd known Blaine noticed - he remembered those eyes, large and almost pitying in their polite worry, remembered that smile, a perfect curve, unwavering despite the barbs. He'd wanted Blaine to stop just _taking_ it, to lose the control Kurt had been robbed of, to call Kurt out-  
  
He never had. Never let Kurt in.  
  
But now Kurt thought back to their fight; to Blaine, standing up for himself. He felt a quiet thrill, smiled and closed his eyes.

  
*

  
Things felt delicate in the following days, though. Kurt worried. _What if_ -  
  
" _Seriously_? You're complaining to _me_ about this?" Santana snapped in disgust, and refused to talk any further.  
  
Rachel was more understanding, if unhelpful. "It's gonna be okay," she said, patting his hand.  
  
That evening Santana rant-texted him, threatening to bring up a probably embarrassing story he had no memory of at his wedding - her very own brand of comfort. His bemused reading was interrupted by his doorbell.  
  
Blaine. Looking lost and worn, uncertain.  
  
"Hey. I know we didn't-"  
  
He stopped talking. Kurt let him in, into his arms, didn't ask if he wanted to talk about it (bad day at work, obviously). What Blaine needed right now was time and comfort, until he felt like he could speak again.  
  
They went to sleep, and just like that Kurt knew that, yes, in the end, they'd be okay.

  
*

  
The party launching September's fashion week was superb. Kurt received several toasts in his honor and accepted them graciously.  
  
It made him the center of attention for a while, many people - important people - wishing to talk to him. But then it naturally wound down; he took advantage of it to make his escape.  
  
 _These things always turn horridly boring extremely fast_ , he texted to check if Blaine was awake. He'd had a shift ending too late for him to feel able to join Kurt at the party, but he answered. They texted back and forth while Kurt took the metro then walked to the building. In the elevator he typed: _Wish you were here with me_.  
  
 _Wish *you* were here with *me*_ , Blaine replied as Kurt reached the right floor and stepped out. _I miss you_.  
  
 _I love you_ , Kurt wanted to write.  
  
Instead he smiled, and rung Blaine's doorbell.

  
*

  
"This looks good, Mr. Hummel," the doctor said. "Anything new I should be aware of?"  
  
Anything new?  
  
Kurt thought about the man he was going to have lunch with once this appointment was over. He thought about his father and Carole flying in from Washington on Thanksgiving to meet him, about his boss giving him free reign for the amazing ideas he'd begun throwing around with Jan and Eric. He thought about brunches with Rachel ranting about her co-stars, about Mercedes mentioning a "good friend" when questioned about her dress, about Cooper Anderson's latest commercial with its 'disgustingly cute gay teenage couple', about Tina's newly announced pregnancy...  
  
He thought about a possible new flat situated further away from his workplace, but closer to the hospital.  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"Everything seems to be back in order, then. You're as good as before."  
  
"No," Kurt smiled. "Actually, I'm much better."

  
*

  
_End_

 


End file.
